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Alone

Pain Takes My Pain Away

Copyright Alone Inside

A lot of people think cutting is for attention, even though I do cut myself, I do not think it’s for attention at all. When I was in 8th grade I started getting treated like shit, a lot of people would instant message me and taunt me at school, hit me in the head with paper balls at lunch and crap like that. It was OK for a little bit, but then it started giving me emotional problems, just with comments people would say, calling me fat and shit like that, I started wearing big shirts and big pants so they couldn’t say anything. It’s like they were trying to make me go kill myself or something. They just made me like go in a little corner and not come out. Then I had other problems with my family. My dad left me when I was a baby, and he never supported me at all, and my mom would treat my brother who is a year younger then me like a little angel when that’s not even true. He beat me, I don’t care what anyone says, I know I could beat his ass but I couldn’t touch him. If I did I would have gotten in trouble with my mom. I told her so many times that he hit me, but she never did anything. I mean, yeah, he still hits me now, he still treats me like shit on the end of his foot. Then I had other stuff like my best friend died, and getting beat by one of my mom’s ex-boyfriends when I was younger. Then I have emotional problems with guys, because of my brother. I will not accept any guy because they will hurt me in some way, shape or form. I mean if my brother hurts me, someone else will too. Plus the fact I have no father figure in my past or present. All this stuff made me start to cut the summer of 2004 going into my sophomore year of high school. I know some of it ‘8th grade’ you would think I got over that, but I never did. I started to cut and am still cutting because I feel alone, neglected, unwanted, isolated, scared, abandoned, trapped, unaccepted, misunderstood, unloved… the list goes on. I remember last summer, the day I accidentally forgot to wear a hoodie. My brother was yelling at me to clean his carpet, and so I went and got soap and water and did what he told me to do. When I was cleaning it he saw cuts on my arm. He started screaming at me, and he hit me in my head, and then my back. Then he started to cry like he really cared about me, I ran in my room and locked my door and started talking to my friend. ‘Crying’ because he hit me. My friend left a while later, so for the rest of the day, I slept, or lay in my bed, listening to music, cut myself again that day. I was worried about what my brother was going to tell my mom. When my mom got home, she came in my room, and said ‘let me see your wrist or arm or whatever.’ I said ‘no’. Then she grabbed my arm. Then she thought my cuts were jelly bracelet marks. Then after like ten minutes the marks wouldn’t go away. So she started screaming at me. I told her that wasn’t going to help me. Then she yelled at me more and she said she was going to send me to a mental hospital, then I was going to go live with one of my problems my dad. I never went to a mental hospital and she never made me go live with my dad. My mom and my brother both said I did it for attention, and I said fuck you, I do not cut myself for fucking attention. I told them I do it to take my pain away. Then my mom said cut me then, cut me. I said, no. She was being stupid. Then she would check my wrist and arm every day. I just found new places to do it. Then when she stopped checking my arm, I started doing it again. Cutting gets addicting, sometimes I can stop myself, and sometimes I can’t. It’s hard. The other thing that hurts me is when my brother shoves it in my face: ‘you’re gross, go cut yourself fat ass’. It just hurts me, it gives me impulses. Then whenever he hits me, I feel the need to do it. Then when my mom calls me names like fat ass or cunt, I feel the need to do it. Then some people try and help me stop, but it doesn’t work at all. This one time I had a party at my house, and I got so depressed I cut myself fourteen times. The bleeding wouldn’t stop at all. so I got a towel and asked my friend to tie it on me, and he said ‘what did you do? Did you cut yourself?’ I said ‘no’. Then he looked and there were cuts. I tried my hardest for him not to grab my arm but he’s way stronger than me. Then a few weeks later, my friend came over and I wasn’t wearing a hoodie once again out of like three times. But I did have a wrist band on. He pulled my wrist band off, and he said why are you doing this. I told him I can’t explain it to you. He told me I shouldn’t keep anything bottled up. I said, oh well. I have a lot more to add, but I don’t feel like adding it. This is one of the first times I have ever written about why I cut or why I have cut. I’m going to try and seek help though.

 

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